


Before We Come Undone

by cheapdate



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-12
Updated: 2010-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheapdate/pseuds/cheapdate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't a job Kris took willingly, and it's far from one that he enjoys, but it's his and it's the only part of Adam he may ever have claim over.<br/>Warnings: Drug Use</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before We Come Undone

Kris shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be behind the wheel of his Fusion, grinding his teeth anxiously as he waits for the red light to change. He shouldn't be skipping out on his brother's birthday or missing cake at his parent’s house. He shouldn't have sent a dubious Katy, with his profuse apologies and a guilt ridden IOU, along without him. He shouldn't be shaking, but he is.

When he pulls up to the club, he chews on his bottom lip nervously. He really doesn't want to have to go inside, but he also doesn't want to spend half the night sitting here. Luckily, as he's weighing the pros and cons of waiting versus getting out of the car, he sees Adam stagger out the ornate glass doors and he breathes a small sigh of relief.

He's mid-exhale when a second, smaller body stumbles out behind him, grabbing at Adam's elbow. Kris feels himself stiffen reflexively and his fingers tighten around the steering wheel causing his knuckles to blanch.

It isn't so much that he hates Brad, just more that he sincerely wishes he did not exist. He's cocky and arrogant and self-absorbed and controversial. He doesn't care about anyone but himself... except the occasional periods of time when he cares about Adam, and, if he’s being honest, Kris isn't sure which bothers him more.

He watches anxiously in the rearview mirror as Brad scans the street, gripping Adam by the forearm. Recognition passes over his face when his eyes find Kris's car, and he walks up slowly, tripping over his own feet and pulling Adam along with him. When he reaches the passenger side door, he pulls it open and leans in, grinning sloppily and smelling like alcohol.

"Thanks," he slurs, and Kris offers a short nod. It’s the best he can do. Any further conversation and he might be forced to lunge across the center console and slug Brad in that perfect, chiseled jaw.

Brad either ignores or is completely oblivious to Kris’s internal war, and he leans back out of the car and shoves Adam forward, into the seat.

Adam collapses heavily onto the leather, his black aviator sunglasses askew and his dark, feathery hair thoroughly mussed. He pulls his big, black-booted feet into the car with a sigh and smoothes his jacket. Kris watches his hands shake from the corner of his eye and he swallows hard against the lump in his throat.

Once Adam is in, Brad closes the door, and then he's walking back to the club, dumping this huge responsibility in Kris's lap without so much as a second glance and Kris can't help but wonder if maybe he actually does hate him after all. He'd dwell on the revelation, but there are more important things to worry about, like the fact that Adam is leaning towards him and suddenly his palm is pressing against Kris's jaw. Slowly, his thumb rubs Kris's cheek, then dips down over his lips, and that's when Kris jerks away. He reaches up and snatches Adam's wrist and pulls his hand away from his face. His heart is hammering out of his chest, but he inhales sharply and hardens.

"Take off your glasses," he demands, with much more conviction than he feels.

He releases Adam's wrist and drops his own hands into his lap, twisting his fingers nervously.

Adam sighs and his shoulders hunch forward, but slowly, he complies. He reaches up and grabs the frames and pulls them off and the light from the bright club illuminates the interior of the car enough that Kris can see all he needs to.

Adam's pupils are so constricted they are nearly lost in his stormy blue irises. Dark purple bruises color the soft flesh beneath his eyes, a harsh contrast to his otherwise pale skin. His eyeliner is smudged and messy, making his eye sockets look sunken and dull.

Kris draws a deep, steadying breath then shakes his head sadly.

"You're high." It's a statement, rather than a question and his voice cracks at the end, despite his attempt to remain deadpan.

Adam says nothing, just runs a hand through his blue-tinged hair and shifts his gaze out the front windshield. He leans his head back against the headrest, his chest rising and falling heavily as he breathes.

There's a black hole in Kris's stomach. It's the result of months of anxiety eating away at his insides. It's a vortex, and it sucks in all the anger and the disappointment and the pain so that he feels numb enough to pull away from the curb and focus on the road. Beside him, Adam jiggles his leg uncontrollably.

Kris pulls into the motel parking lot and chooses a spot in the shadow of the building. He turns off the car and stares straight ahead, assessing the situation with what little logical section of brain is still at his disposal. He digs into the recesses of his mind, recalling the information he has on drug use and cross-referencing it with Adam's known habits.

Pupils dilated - cocaine. Pupils constricted - heroin.

"Damnit, Adam," Kris breathes, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He’s tired and frustrated and overwhelmed and he wishes with all his heart that he was seated at his parent’s dining room table digging into a large piece of ice cream cake.

Adam says nothing. He runs a hand over his face and closes his eyes.

Kris is furious, but more than that, he’s hurt. With a sigh he hopes relays the amount of disappointment he’s feeling, he pushes open the driver’s side door and steps out.

“Don’t move,” he says, and slams the door shut, not waiting for Adam to agree to his order.

He stalks across the parking lot towards the front office, stomping his Converse clad feet as though the gravel below them has somehow offended him. He’s practically buzzing with annoyance, but deep down he recognizes that it’s merely a cover. If the anger fades, he’ll be left with fear and he can’t handle that.

He marches up to the front office and yanks open the dirty glass door. A bell above his head tinkles, alerting his presence and a large, red-faced woman looks up from the counter. As Kris approaches, he eyes the open book in her lap and she slams it closed with a huff and stands.

“I need a room, please,” he says, politely, hoping to smooth the lines of annoyance from her face by emphasizing his slight drawl.

It doesn’t work. She rolls her eyes and plucks a key ring from the board beside them. Kris glances down at the well-worn book cover. For someone reading ‘Throbbing Desires’, she seems awfully jaded. Then again, Kris can hardly rag on one’s ideal of romance given his current situation.

“Oh! One more thing.”

Suddenly reminded of his own circumstances, he turns and jogs over to the cooler fridge near the front of the office. He pulls open the door and grabs two bottles of water then returns to the counter. The woman, still not amused, rings him up. With a tight smile, Kris retrieves his wallet from his back pocket and throws down the appropriate number of bills. He doesn’t say thank you, just grabs the key and the water bottles and leaves. Her attitude is hardly fair, knowing that while she will be returning to pages filled with burning passions and impractical porn, he’ll be returning to something very real and very frightening.

Kris crosses the parking lot again, back to his Fusion. Silently, he’s praying that when he returns, Adam will be back to normal, laughing and teasing him about taking him to a motel. He know better, but he can’t help it.

When he pulls open the door and leans in, Adam turns to look at him and the tiny bit of hope he’s managed to invest is shot to hell. His red-rimmed eyes are still wild, tiny pinprick pupils surrounded by murky blue-grey.

“Here,” Kris says, and he tosses a water bottle at Adam. “Get out.”

Adam opens his mouth as if to speak, but Kris shakes his head sharply and he closes it. He presses his lips together and exhales through his nose, then pushes open his door and climbs out, clutching the bottle of water.

“Drink,” Kris demands, making sure the car is locked before looking down at the number on the room key.

_12_

He looks up and scans the series of doors, groaning when he finds the one with the tilted “12” emblazoned on its white surface. It’s all the way at the end, next to the dumpsters, and Kris isn’t naïve enough to believe it’s coincidence. He glances over his shoulder as he starts towards the room to make sure Adam follows.

Luckily, the room is clean and everything seems to be in working order. Clean, of course, is the operative term, seeing as how they are in a seedy, roadside motel outside of West Hollywood. Still, Kris manages to keep his eyes from wandering or inspecting the corners too closely.

“Romantic,” Adam quips as he sinks down onto the bed, tossing his now empty plastic water bottle towards the trash and missing.

Kris can’t help but shoot him a look of death, but he simply shrugs, leans back against the mattress and scoots up towards the headboard.

Anger and frustration are beginning to be edged out by exhaustion, and as much as Kris would rather just go back out to the car and sulk, he won’t. He’s here now and he’ll ride it out, just like last time and the time before that. Because as much as a personal pity-party is looking quite appealing, if anyone has to be looking after Adam tonight, he wouldn’t want it to be anybody else. It isn’t a job he took willingly, and it’s far from one that he enjoys, but it’s his and it’s the only part of Adam he may ever have claim over.

“Let’s just go to bed,” he sighs, and pulls off his jacket.

He climbs up on the mattress next to Adam, leaving on his clothes and shoes for protection. He doesn’t want to even begin to consider what could be on these sheets and he isn’t going to remove any potential barriers.

Resting his head on his arm, he turns onto his side, facing towards Adam. Adam is on his back, his chest rising and falling evenly and his long dark lashes flick back and forth as he blinks rapidly. With sad resignation, Kris closes his eyes. He knows there will be no sleep for him tonight, but somehow the illusion tricks his body into believing he’s gotten some semblance of rest.

After no more than a minute at most, he feels the mattress beside him shift, bouncing his body slightly, and his lids pop open.

When his eyes focus, they find Adam’s face. He’s moved onto his side; his pupils are slightly less constricted and his hair has flopped down over his forehead. He attempts a smile, but it’s weak and Kris just doesn’t have the energy to force a matching fake one. Slowly, Adam’s fades and he swallows, his throat bobbing slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Kris can feel something hot and wet prick behind his eyes.

Inexplicably, he feels guilty, but there is nothing more he can do. He knows that Adam doesn’t mean to hurt him and he knows that Adam doesn’t mean to break his trust, but he does. It’s a cruel cycle and Kris can’t seem to stop himself from spinning along with it.

Tomorrow, when Adam’s straight, they’ll talk about it. Kris will suggest therapy and Adam will laugh it off. He’ll make promises he can’t keep and apologies he’s made before. He might even get angry and shut Kris out. He’ll entertain the idea with snark and avoidance, and Kris will let him because he knows he’s only scared. And Kris knows what it’s like to be scared.

With a sigh, he closes his eyes again. In the darkness, he reaches out and brushes Adam’s hair off his forehead, then pulls his arm back to his side.

“I know.”


End file.
